


Practice Makes Imperfect

by onyxshinigami



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyxshinigami/pseuds/onyxshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elf who grew up to become Inquisitor and the qunari that grew up to become the Iron Bull could not have had a more different upbringing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Imperfect

The little elf’s hands shook as he struggled to maintain the sphere of lightning crackling between his small, chubby fingers. The Keeper watched intently, her face a mask of implacable judgement.

He crooked his fingers slightly, felt the jagged shards of lightning smooth into a delicate arc, felt the flow of magic ease as it found the right shape, the shape it wanted to take.

“Break.” The Keeper commanded.

He took a deep breath, eased the flow and released the gathered energy back to the sky. It dissipated instantly, harmlessly. He smiled. He had held the lightning sphere for longer than ever. It was getting easier. He turned to the Keeper, bouncing on his toes with joy.

“It took you too long to form the sphere and the rotation was erratic. You need to focus. I expect better tomorrow. Return to Tavven; he requires assistance.”

His face fell. He nodded politely, his unruly mop of curling brown hair hiding the sting of tears from prying eyes, and left the Keeper’s fire, dragging his feet in the dirt as he went. It was never good enough. He was never good enough.

 

*** ~~~***

 

Ashkaari’s arms shook as he struggled to maintain proper form and posture under the terrific weight of his weapon. The tamassran watched intently, her face a mask of dedicated patience.

He moved forward again, muscles struggling to remember where they were supposed to be, how they needed to flow. He completed his form, bowed respectively to the instructor, and turned to the tamassran.

“Excellent work.” she smiled, bending down to place a gentle hand on his cheek. “You have been training so hard. The results are showing. You’re doing well.”

He felt his chest swelling with pride and joy. He made her smile. He was happy.

 

***~~~***

 

The splash in the water alerted him to their presence. Not again. He sighed his frustration, straightening his back to ease stiff and aching muscles. Gathering spindleweed and blood lotus wasn’t a chore many young elves enjoyed, but he volunteered for it as it gave him a few hours peace. Usually. The snickering to his far left betrayed his tormenters position.

He was an easy target for the trio. He was smaller, physically weaker, and alone. His parents, when they were in camp, never paid him any mind. They disavowed any connection with him and ignored his presence with silent indifference. The Keeper taught him, valued him as a mage, but nothing more.

A second stone landed lose enough to splash him. The third, he knew, would hit.

He turned his gaze to the sky.

Ignoring them did nothing, but if he reacted, he would be at fault. The trio would go running and crying to their parents and the Keeper, saying he had ‘attacked’ them with magic. No reaction was permitted. No defense was permitted. He was expected to endure in silence, choke down the anger least he inadvertently call a demon to him. Be above it all. Pretend he felt nothing.

The torment ate at his insides.

He turned his gaze to the riverbank and waited.

He saw the movement in the rushes. He knew what was coming.

Movement betrayed their position as one of them arched back to pitch another stone at him. He chose.

With a twitch of his fingers, he raised the river water between them and in the blink of an eye froze it solid. The rock pinged off the side of the ice wall, plopping harmless into the water. He watched the trio in the rushes through the clear ice, frozen in fear. He did not move. The wall would protect him from their stones, but not the scolding he was going to get for using his magic ‘against’ them. He’d be shunned by the others for a week at the very least.

The trio bolted out of the rushes, heading back to camp to tell the Keeper of his actions, making themselves victims and he the villain once more. Once they were out of sight, he relaxed the magic that held the ice wall together, letting it fall to the river, melting away.

One day, he told himself. One day he’d be a mage skilled enough another clan would want him. Someone would want him. One day.

 

***~~~***

 

Ashkaari roared as he leapt into the fray. He pushed one of the fighters off of the pile, kicked another away, and grabbed a third by her horns, twisting her off the little Imekari curled into a defensive ball on the ground.

The tamassran were right behind him separating scrambling, biting, clawing children.

Ashkaari covered the downed fighter with his body, taking several kicks and blows before the tamassran got everyone pulled apart.

It was over as suddenly as it had begun.

Ashkaari stood slowly, watching everyone. He held out a hand to the other Imekari, helping him up, brushing the dust off his face, wiping the blood off his split lip.

“You’re alright. They’re assholes. Four on one? Hmph.” Ashkaari shook his head. “You’ll get ‘em next time.”

“Thank you,” the other boy sniffled.

“Ashkaari,” a tamassran spoke as she walked over, “Take the little ones to the river. It’s a nice day for a swim.”

“Yes, tama!”

“Mind the mud on your way back.”

“Yes, tama.” Ashkaari took the other Imekari by the hand. “Let’s go!” The other boy looked surprised for a moment. Then his face split into a bloody grin and he nodded.

Ashkaari and his new friend hurried off to the river with the little ones. He pretended not to see a few tamassaran following them at a watchful distance.

It was a nice day to spend with friends.

 

***~~~***

 

The shouted warning came too late.

They fell from the trees; bladed snow. The unwary were taken in an instant. The screams of the dying spurred clan Lavellan to furious action.

Arrows hissed through the air, daggers cracked and sang, swords clashed, fire and lightning crackled and seared the flesh of the attackers. Winter had come early and lingered overlong. Harsh and unforgiving. The raiding clan was desperate; starving. Clan Lavellan raced to defend, to protect.

He cast a barrage of ice at an attacker after he finished raising a thick ice wall over the mouth of the old bear den where the children were hiding with the last of the winter goods. He had been concentrating on increasing the thickness, the structure, when he was struck from behind. The force of the blow knocked him into the ice barrier, stunning him briefly. He fell to the ground, his staff just out of reach.

He rolled, arms crossed in front of his chest as the assailant landed on top of him, blades quick and aching for blood. He drew upon the forces of the Fade and exerted his will, forming a barrier of sheer energy, forcing the other elf off of him. He scrambled quickly to his feet and leapt towards his staff. A thrown dagger stabbed through his calf and he fell once again. The raiding Dalish was quicker than him and leapt on top of him pinning him to the ground, shoving his face into the snow, a second dagger poised for the kill. He drew upon his magic and called lightning to strike. The white heat of the bolt struck the assailant hard. He twisted, throwing the smoking, shuddering corpse off of him as he crawled across the frozen, bloodied earth to his staff. He barely had time to grasp it when he felt an arrow pierce his chest from behind. A second, then a third quickly followed. He raised a smaller ice wall to protect himself from the hidden archer. Gasping, he turned, surveying the area, looking to the den to see that his ice wall still stood, still protecting the children.

It held.

The thin wall of ice he used to protect himself caught another arrow, the ice cracking and splintering from the force. He traced the arrows path with his mind and cast blind. A scream. The partly frozen body of an elf fell from a tree a moment later, shattering into silence as it hit the ground.

He reached to his belt for a healing potion. He couldn’t help if he fainted, or was dead. He drank half the potion before he was attacked savagely from behind.

The rogue drove their daggers deep, twisting the jagged edges inside his flesh. He almost lost his grip on his staff, but managed to lash out with a blast of frozen ice. The rogue slowed, but did not stop. They dashed forward, slicing gleaming arcs of death. He felt sluggish, barely raising his staff in time to deflect several of the attacks. One of the rogues blades caught his face as it descended, blinding him with his own blood. A kick to his chest knocked him back against a tree, breaking the arrow shafts while driving the arrowheads in deeper. He dropped his staff. Afraid and exhausted, he fought desperately, calling upon the last vestige of his energy to cast one final spell.

He held his left arm out defensively, as if to fend off the incoming blow, clutched at his chest with the right. The rogue attacked, blades aimed for throat and heart. He summoned ice to his right hand. The rogue surged forward for the kill. He reacted, grasping the rogues arm with his left, twisting with the attacker’s momentum. He clawed his right hand into the rogues’ hair, pushed with all his magic and might. The head froze completely, and shattered upon impact as he drove it into the tree trunk.

He grabbed at the pouch on his belt, downing a healing potion, gasping and bleeding and sick-numb from pain. Groggy, on the edge of darkness, he drank a regeneration potion as well, and prayed it would be enough.

He awoke to darkness; bandaged, cold, and alone.

 

***~~~***

 

Hissrad sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, nodding to people he knew as they passed. His stitches itched and the bandages smelled like oily rotten flowers, and there was that one burn on his thigh that still stung and made him fidget, but he was alive. It was more than could be said for a lot of people today.

Vasaad set down two large tankards of clear, sweet smelling liquor on the table before sitting on the bench beside him. A thick white bandage would around Vasaad’s forehead and the majority of the right side of his face. The jagged edge of Vassad’s newly broken horn splintered the dim tavern light.

“To good fights, and fallen foes,” Vassad toasted.

“To good fights, and fallen friends,” Hissrad returned.

The two men clinked their mugs together, silently remembering those they had lost today; thankful they lived to see tomorrow.

Vasaad was important to Hissrad. They worked well together and pushed one another to improve their already considerable skills. Even more importantly, over the course of this first year stationed together, they had come to trust one another. In Seheron, trust was an almost unknown creature. It was fickle, fleeting, and foolish. Trust could get you killed, and yet it was almost impossible to survive without it. You had to trust someone, or you’d go mad. They were a formidable pair, twined together by duty and fate. They watched each other’s backs in battle, never left the other behind, and never fought alone. Each was honoured to call the other friend.

The two qunari drank together, but did not speak. No words were needed. They were alive, and they were together, and that was enough for now.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Leaf heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the top of the craig. The mage turned to survey Crestwood, marveling at how different the place looked when it wasn’t black with rain and crawling with the undead. Cole came to stand beside him, followed by the Iron Bull. Vivienne remained in the village, gathering information from the Chantry sisters and other villagers that seemed more comfortable talking to a fellow human than some slinking Dalish elf or a hulking Qunari. The three men would join her shortly before returning to Skyhold.

“Lot of little villages like this, trying to keep going with demons everywhere...” the Iron Bull sounded far away. Leaf wondered what the warrior was remembering.

“They want to go home. That's why they take the bodies.” Cole stood silently beside the qunari.

“…yeah. That’s not… Never mind.” The Iron Bull shook his head. Leaf wasn’t sure if he imagined Iron Bull’s slight shiver or if it was a trick of the light.

Leaf smiled. “They’re resilient, humans. They’ll recover and keep going. Give it a season or two and you would never think there was trouble here outside of the occasional bandit.”

“I’m glad we helped them,” Cole said as he looked over the land.

“The people or the spirits?” Leaf asked.

“Yes.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Leaf wanted company, but he also wanted quiet. He was torn. Usually when he longed for company, he would sneak into the rafters of the tavern and sit beside Cole, listening to the music and conversation drifting up from the floors below. Tonight, however, he needed quiet more than company. The noise of the tavern would irritate, not soothe, so he paced his room, idly reading letters Josephine asked him to look at and retaining not a word of them.

A rare knock sounded at his door below. Josephine was generally the only one who came to his quarters, unless she sent a runner to fetch him on her behalf.

“Enter,” he called. So much for quiet.

A light tread sounded on the stairs.

“Hey Boss.”

“The Iron Bull. Is there a problem?” Leaf turned to put the useless letters on his desk. Iron Bull had never come to his quarters before. In fact, the Bull had never looked for him before at all. He usually sent Krem along if he wanted to discuss business, or he waited to see Leaf in the tavern. This was most unusual.

“Nah. Just needed some quiet, and this is about the only place in Skyhold to find it. No one but you here. You mind?”

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable.” Puzzled but grateful for the company, Leaf placed his letters into a neat pile on the desk and took the book Vivienne had loaned him. He sat at his desk, rested his chin onto the back of his hand, and began to read.

He indirectly watched the Bull move about in his peripheral vision. Iron Bull moved to sit on the floor in front of the fire, crossing his good leg under him and stretching out the left before him, leaning into the heat. Leaf glanced over briefly, looking at the way the firelight glinted off of the Iron Bull’s eyepatch. He looked away when the Bull inclined his head towards him and returned his attention to Vivienne’s book.

Like two cats playing the ‘I’m not paying any attention to you’ game, they spent most of their evening sneaking coy glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. It amused them both more than they would ever admit.

 

*** *** ***

 

They lay together, side by each, gazing up at the stars. The Storm Coast holds many memories for them.

“This place isn’t so bad when it isn’t pouring down.”

Leaf made a humming noise to let Bull know he heard him, but had nothing to say.

“You know, I should hate this place, but I don’t.”

Leaf turned his head to look at Bull. He had his head pillowed in his hands. Leaf was mildly tempted to reach over and tickle Bull, but did not.

“I could have lost my boys here. But you wouldn’t let them-”

Leaf waited.

“I could have- but you saved them.” Bull rolled over, leaning his weight onto his elbows beside Leaf. Close enough to feel one another’s warmth without touching. Bull shifted again, leaning over Leaf, tracing his vallaslin. “You saved me,” he whispered.

Leaf raised his arms as Bull lowered his head, thick neck muscles strong and real under Leaf’s touch. Their kiss was soft. It meant the world.

 

*** *** ***

 

“An odd pair, but I don’t disapprove,” Cassandra replied as Josephine refilled their cups.

“They help one another. Shadows fall away and the heart sings a bright song. Words have meaning now they never had before. I like when they glow.”

Josephine spilled only a drop of wine.

“You believe the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull are a good match, Cole?” the ambassador asked, wiping the side of the carafe with a handkerchief.

Voice flat; Cole speaks. “So cold inside. Frozen and alone. Never welcome only a tool. Use it or break it or send it away. A tool to be used with pride.” The spirit-man tilts his head slightly. His voice speaks warmly. “Treasured and appraised and valued. Mend it and make more use of it. It can always be mended if it still has use.”

He regards the two women. “They seek and hope and share. They help and hold and fix. He doesn’t need me as much anymore. He still likes me, though. He likes you, too. He hopes you’re happy.”

As the women turn to regard one another, he vanishes. They don’t need him. He returns to the tavern to listen to the songs and sounds. Someone may need him before dawn. He listens and waits. Below him the Inquisitor sits with the Iron Bull, the two pressed tightly together, surrounded by their makeshift family. He feels their hearts glowing, hears the song of their souls, and knows they will not need him this night.

It’s a good night.

**Author's Note:**

> Leaf Lavellan chose his name when he was sent to the Conclave. What he was called before that is unknown.


End file.
